


Only Plays For You

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blind Karkat, Cemetery, Fluff, Librarians, M/M, References To Terrorism, References to Popular Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave helps Karkat pick out music at the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Plays For You

The “Summer Help Wanted” sign at the library had called to you like a desperate girl on tumblr posting selfies in fail-sexy poses called to other desperate girls to draw hurt/comfort comics when you passed it on a whimsical walk to pick up some things at the store. It wasn’t like you were looking for something to do during the summer. And you didn’t really need extra money, though you figured that extra money would be nice.

 

You thought about the sign as you continued on your way to the store, and on your way back, you went in and stopped by the front desk to pick up an application.

 

You decided that it would be a good way to kill some time. And they were pretty chill with working out a schedule that was good for you. You got 10:00 am to 2:30 pm every weekday, plus a half-hour break for lunch. If that wasn’t a sweet deal, you didn’t know what was. Maybe they were afraid you would refuse to stay if they gave you anything else.

 

Anyway, here you are now, wearing a black, white and red striped polo shirt that Bro got you when he found out you had applied at the library. You have a name tag pinned just above the pocket that exists to inform anyone who bothers to look at you that HELLO you are DAVE STRIDER and you are HERE TO HELP.

 

Although, apparently—judging by the past three days of training—people who come by in the summer are either people who just want to find something to read and have a pretty good idea of what they’re looking for, seniors in college who are finishing their thesis papers, or just people with absolutely nothing to do. And the few people who do possibly need help ignore you to walk up to Mrs. Librarian Lady at the desk who is usually kind of busy, but adores people showing interest in books as much as if they wanted to see the army of pictures of her kids all over her desk. So she helps anyone who walks up to her.

 

So you really don’t have much to help with, besides reshelving books and movies and cds. Seriously, who even gets these things? Can’t they just find all the music they want on the internet?

 

Well, the music section is still kind of interesting. After reshelving a good portion of the books on the cart and deciding that the library’s methods of organization really aren’t that difficult, you leave it back at the desk and go back to the music section to reorganize disk cases, since the people who browse the section somehow can’t understand that the music is ordered by both name AND genre of music.

 

Your co-worker explained on your very first day about how frustrating it is dealing with the music, and now you are coming to understand what she meant.

 

There’s a kid about your age there right now, running his hands against the cases on one shelf with a small scowl. He’s got thick black hair and golden brown skin and he has shades on over his eyes, kind of like the ones that you have to leave in your locker in the workroom, because you need to look at least somewhat professional in this place.

 

You figure now is your time to shine as a bright sparkling new employee of this library.

 

“Can I help with anything?”

 

“Yeah,” the kid says, not bothering to look at you. What a douche. “Can you get the head of this place and have her fired because I can’t fucking understand which type of music this is? When did you assholes change your shitty signs on this retarded section anyway? When did a library actually get enough funds to do that anyway? Aren’t you people always begging the government for funds anyway because ‘OH NO, WE REALLY NEED TO GET THESE BOOKS FOR KIDS TO READ EVEN THOUGH KIDS DON’T READ ANYMORE’?”

 

That was uncalled for. The bluntness surprises you, though you collect yourself, making a mental reminder that yes, sometimes some people will be rude. You can’t be too rude back. Just remember that.

 

It doesn’t matter that he’s still not looking at you. Just be polite and hope he leaves soon.

 

“Were you looking for something in particular? Or did you just want to touch at the S section of rock music?”

 

The kid rips his hand off the cases and turns his head to look in your general direction. His lips are twisted in a supremely irritated expression. “Just tell me where the fucking soundtracks are. Then you can go away and replace your miserably shitstain presence with someone who’s significantly less of a prick pretending to be a librarian.”

 

You hold back a sigh and point to a shelf a little ways away. “They’re over there. See?”

 

The kid says nothing, but he bares his teeth and squeezes his hands into tighter fists. You wonder if he’s going to start ranting. He seems like the kind of person who would.

 

And while preparing yourself for another storm of rage, you notice that he has been holding a long cane with a rounded end this whole time.

 

Oh.

 

Shit.

 

You quickly try to recover. “Here, I’ll walk you over there.” You head towards the shelf, glancing back every few steps to see if he’s following. He is, though he still looks pissed. You stop in front of the shelf and say, “Here. Did you want me to help you pick something out?”

 

“I’d rather wait all day for an screaming dunderfucking skateboarder to crash through a window and crush my skull in, returning me to the ironically rainbow-filled land of fuck you, but I’m assuming you’re the only asshole around right now, so I guess I might as well ask the air around you if you’re considerate enough to find any…Broadway musicals.”

 

That’s a pretty convoluted way of asking someone. Though it makes you smile a bit. You scan the shelf.

 

“Uh, on the second shelf. We have Lion King, Phantom of the Opera, Wicked—”

 

“Those are good. You can leave and pretend to be useful again to people who are far less troublesome to deal with than I am. Have a shitty day.” He reaches towards the second shelf and runs his hand along the edge, coming to the new plastic sign that definitely does not contain those little Braille bumps.

 

He scowls.

 

You reach for the three cds you had mentioned and take them down for him. “Here.”

 

He huffs in irritation but holds his hand out, gazing somewhere at your shoulders. You take his hand and put the disks in it. “Anything else? I just got those three.”

 

“No.” He turns around and makes his way back to the checkout desk, his cane sweeping in regular waves in front of him. You follow him, mainly because you notice that there’s no one at the desk right now. Though you might be a little interested in him—perhaps because dealing with him has been the most interesting thing that has happened all week.

 

He sets the disks down at the counter and takes out a little white card.

 

“My name’s Dave,” you say with a smirk that you know he can’t see. He can hear it though, and his mouth twitches. “Did you find everything alright?” You take the cd cases and scan them.

 

“Fuck no. I’m never coming here again. I’m telling everyone I meet that this is a primitive shitbagelshop excuse of a library and they should petition the city to get it banned.”

 

“That’s nice. Mm-hmm. I see. I’m glad you enjoyed it here.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

You pick up his library card and look at the name. Karkat Vantas. You scan it, put it in his waiting hand, and put his cds neatly in a plastic bag.

 

“These are due in one week. If you don’t bring them back, the library will cry. And we might consider putting your gold-plated memory on our dusty wall of sadness, but we won’t ban you because we love you and because our hearts will bleed at the thought of losing a person who actually still checks things out of a library.”

 

“Seriously, fuck you.” Karkat Vantas grabs the bag and almost walks into the book-detector on his rushed way out the door. He pulls the door a little too hard and thankfully there is no one on the other side for him to startle.

 

You hope he’ll come back to return them during your shift.

 

....................................................

 

The next week is long and boring, but you don’t mind it that much. Other people stop you to ask general questions like “where is this section thanks I thought it was there too” and weirdly specific questions like “do you have this obscure book or movie here is the long and convoluted plot description and the stupidly generic title” or worse.

 

You don’t mind it because you are looking forward to maybe running into Karkat again.

 

And sure enough, at the same exact time next week, while you are idling at the checkout desk with another of the new employees, Karkat Vantas walks in. He isn’t carrying the bag anymore, and you assume he’s left the cds in the dropbox. He makes his way towards the music section slowly, the cane moving like a steady metronome glued to the floor in front of him. You leave the desk and follow him at a distance. He stops halfway there and lets out an exasperated groan.

 

“Oh come on. You’d better not be that insufferable fuckwaffle from last week.”

 

“Naw, I’m Dave. They pay me to ask people if they want help, to walk away awkwardly when they say no I’m fine, and to put books on shelves in a way that makes sense for people who don’t understand the alphabet or how to count.”

 

“They should spend their money on more important things.” Karkat grumbles, but reluctantly follows the sound of your rambling voice to the music section.

 

“Oh, I’m so hurt. This is my job.”

 

“You said your job is to ask me if I want help. I don’t want your help.”

 

“Sure you do. Everyone wants Dave Strider’s help.”

 

“Why do you keep repeating your name at every conceivable possibility? I don’t care. Is that even your name? It sounds like you made it up. No, it actually sounds like the kind of self-indulgent nickname a sweet depraved pain in the fuckass would make for himself when playing some blithering stupid game.”

 

You almost warn Karkat that he’s about to walk into a display, but the cane bumps it lightly and he changes direction instinctively.

 

“Nah, my name is just awesome on its own. I wish I could call myself something even cooler, but the sad truth is my name is just too cool. I mean, it’s barely cool enough to contain all the cool that I am. I’m like the freakin’ Arctic tundra. I am the thousands of inconceivable miles of cool packed with fluffy white polar bears and badass wolves and occasional Canadians and Eskimos that is called Dave Strider. Dave Strider was the only name in creation that could hold this.”

 

Karkat has stopped and is actually looking up at your face, a tight scowl locked on his face.

 

“Are you kidding me? I want a new librarian right now. You’re clearly some brain-damaged cretinous waste of shit that somehow wandered into this institution of enlightened independent learning by mistake and is currently getting a lackadaisical kick out of harassing handicapped people. Go away.”

 

Ouch. That hurt. You quickly protest that insinuation. “No, no. I’m not trying to harass you, seriously. Here, you want soundtracks, right? I can read off everything we have on the shelf. Hell, I’ll read off everything we have in the entire audio section if you want. Just don’t think I’m—like—targeting you or anything.”

 

Karkat holds up his cane as if he’s going to hit your head off your shoulders like a kid playing tee-ball. But instead, he says, “Fine. Just the soundtracks though. I have no desire to listen to your droning, circuitous words any more than I have to. Jesus Christ, why the fuck am I even putting up with this? I must be a retarded masochist.”

 

Karkat leaves with Chicago, A Chorus Line, Annie, and Mamma Mia.

 

....................................................

 

The day before you expect Karkat to come back again, you dig out an old cd player from the storage room. You also find a shitty old pair of headphones that actually still play from both speakers, but are broken in half, creating two separate earpieces that people can hold up to sample music. You speak to the head librarian and offer to monitor the cd player at certain hours of the day, to make sure people don’t switch disks around.

 

She thinks it’s a great idea and encourages you to go for it.

 

You spend the rest of your time—after reshelving—looking at the music on display, wondering what Karkat might find interesting besides musical soundtracks.

 

You conclude that you should just ask him when he comes in.

 

That night as you’re eating dinner, Bro stops in the middle of jamming another shitty sword into the umbrella stand to give you a long look. He smirks.

 

“So you’ve met someone you like at that library?”

 

He leaves before you can argue with him. Not that the argument would do much good. He’s already come to his own conclusions.

 

And… sometimes, Bro might have a point with his ironic little observations and comments. He might have a point now. You’re not about to completely shut your mind off because that’s just stupid and it makes you question yourself too much. You might… find something about Karkat cute. Even if all you like about him is how he doesn’t take bullshit from you. He probably doesn’t take shit from anyone. You’ll have to ask him about that too, or at least find a way to ask him.

 

....................................................

 

Karkat doesn’t take bullshit from anyone.

 

You are held up when one of the reference desk ladies—you can’t remember all their names and they almost have one mind like a freaky hivemind from some science fiction thing, creepy—enlists you to push some cart full of literary criticisms to one of the study rooms at the back for some AP school study group.

 

When you make it to your music section, you find Karkat hissing angrily at a pair of girls standing in front of the new releases stand.

 

“…so, no. I’m not a ‘poor little guy’ for having to use a fucking stick to figure out where things are. I never asked for anyone’s pity. All I’m asking for is this: for you unintelligent hipster cunts to get the fuck out of this place and go back to crying on your airheaded pimplesqueezing boyfriends’ shoulders. And maybe get run over by a truck too. That would be fucking nice as shit. Why don’t you do that? And stop assuming that just because a guy can’t see, it doesn’t mean he can’t hear, you moronic fuckheads.”

 

The girls scamper away, muttering huffily to themselves.

 

You clap slowly and Karkat freezes, listening to your footsteps.

 

“Oh god. Not another ignoramus who gets a bleeding heart for blind dicks. What do you want, Strider?”

 

Your heart lifts when you hear that he’s remembered your name, though after your conversation during his last visit, the only reason he wouldn’t use it would be if he just wanted to bug you. He’s probably had his early-during-the-library-visit fill of ranting from whatever you missed with those girls.

 

“No, Karkat. I’m totally here to help. I actually have this thing set up, so you can listen to music here and you don’t have to guess what you might like.”

 

Karkat’s mouth opens in a little “o” and he is silent for a moment. “You… what?”

 

You head over to the cd player and turn it on. Then you grab a disk that you had earlier set aside and gently led Karkat to the player, handing him one side of the headphones and taking the other. You put the disk in and press play.

 

“What is this?” Karkat asks. holding the ½headphones with a small frown. You hold it up to his ear.

 

“All the headphones we had were broken. This was the best pair. I’ve got the other half.”

 

“What kind of—” Karkat stops talking to listen to the lyrics. “What is this?” He asks in a little whisper.

 

“My Cherie Amour. Stevie Wonder.”

 

Karkat listens to the first three songs, feels around for the case, and asks for the disk.

 

You spend about an hour and a half going through music and discover that Karkat is pretty open about music tastes, but he definitely has a thing for songs about love and songs with a great beat.

 

He leaves with My Cherie Amour and seven other albums you chose at random: Jar of Flies by Alice in Chains, Nine Lives by Aerosmith, Recovery by Eminem, American Idiot by Green Day, Enema of the State by Blink-182, Nevermind by Nirvana, and he even took The Wall by Pink Floyd.

 

For some reason, Karkat liked and took each cd that you picked out.

 

....................................................

 

Before you realize it, another month passes of Karkat’s weekly visits to the library. He still seems to pride himself on being difficult and insulting everything that pisses him off, but you can see something behind that.

 

Maybe it was because of the two girls, but he clearly has a long-established precedent for dealing with worldly bullshit, probably developed over many years. And maybe it’s just you hoping, but he seems to relax whenever he’s conversing with you about stupid people and their ridiculous asinine actions. You don’t really see it as arguing anymore. It’s more like you see eye-to-blindguyshades on this kind of thing, though you’ll still spend at least twenty minutes arguing about it as if you have completely different viewpoints. Sometimes you do and sometimes you don’t, and just banter for the sake of enjoying a good debate.

 

During these times, you forget about everything else in the library and everyone else in the world and just focus on holding one half of the headphones, listening to the music and throwing out interpretations of the musician and the tone of the piece.

 

Today, Karkat doesn’t walk with you to the cd player right away. He stands at the entrance to the music section, looking a little anxious.

 

“What’s up?” You greet him with a half-smile that he can’t see.

 

He licks his lips, bites them, rubs one hand against his pocket and twists his cane in his other hand.

 

“When do you get off work?”

 

You are slowly overwhelmed by nerves possibly similar to the ones that Karkat is feeling. It takes everything you have to force out the words, “Two thirty.” You don’t ask why he wants to know, but the question lingers in between you.

 

“Oh,” Karkat murmurs. It’s almost 1:00 right now. He takes a shaky breath, lets it out and takes another one.

 

“I can ask my boss if I can leave early,” you say quickly.

 

“N—you don’t—” Karkat begins, but you are already definitely not running to the office.

 

Mrs. Whatever-her-name-is says it’s fine to go early and waves you away with one of those smiles that should be on a mannequin in some horror movie where a kid gets stuck in a preppy clothes store and is turned into a preppy asshole by the evil soulless preppy employees who turn into mannequins. And you have certainly not been thinking about that whenever you see the library employees sitting quietly with smiles on their faces.

 

You grab your shades and stuff your name tag into your pocket. Karkat is still waiting where you left him, scowling at the floor. He looks up when you head back towards him.

 

“Actually, forget what I just told you. I was off work the moment you walked in.”

 

Bluh. Fuck. That sounded a lot better rehearsed in your head. Karkat’s face twists up in embarrassment. You decide to fuck the possible awkward moment left behind by that statement and just take his free hand.

 

He follows you with little argument. It takes him a few moments to learn your pace, but by the time you open the door for him, he can mostly much stay by your side without feeling a tug from your joined hands.

 

You lead him along the sidewalk, wondering where the hell you were planning on going. For lack of any better ideas, you circle around and enter the ancient little cemetery on the far side of the block.

 

“Stairs,” you warn Karkat several steps before you reach the steps leading up to the open gate.

 

Karkat stops and traces the first step with the edge of his cane for several seconds, memorizing the length, width and height.

 

“There are five of them,” you add helpfully.

 

“Thanks,” he says.

 

You walk along the path until you’re almost at the center of the cool, shady atmosphere, enjoying how the cemetery almost shuts out the sound of traffic and the city completely.

 

As distracted as you are by the feel of Karkat’s smooth, warm hand in yours and the sound of his steady footsteps and soft breathing and the tap of his cane against the stones of the walkway and his very presence beside you, you find it an amazing achievement worthy of unlocking some special level in the game of Dave Strider’s life with a half-musical soundtrack playing in your head that you can still walk without tripping on something. However, you realize that if you don’t find something to distract you soon, you’ll end up walking into one of these pretty, semi-crumbling tombstones.

 

The universe decides to save you by providing you with a ironically iconic bench under a tree with droopy, leafy branches surrounded by little flowery weeds.

 

You direct Karkat to sit down on it and the two of you sit in—fuck, damn it—awkward silence.

 

“I have these moronic friends at school.” Karkat says into the blue. “They’re all permanently screwed up in the head. But at least they aren’t sad sacks of shit who are incapable of doing anything for themselves, like most brainless people I run into seem to think they are.”

 

“I have some pretty crazy friends too,” you reply. “They’re those kinds of people who actually think before they talk. Like their mind comes out of their mouth, but it’s not the sticky disgusting sweet politically correct censored crap, or the ‘I don’t care if I hurt you with this’ stuff either. It’s like, something you would actually want to listen to and write in a book or something for future generations of little shitheads to be forced to read in high school but actually just get the Sparknotes version and understand nothing.”

 

Karkat lets out a scoffing laugh. “Yeah. People never want to learn anything about things that matter. Or they just say that it never mattered. Like…”

 

He lifts a hand towards his face and hesitates for a moment. You watch, holding your breath.

 

Karkat holds one lens of his sunglasses and slides them slowly off his face. He turns his face half towards you. Your eyes widen a little at the glassy brown eyes surrounded by deep twists of scarred tissue. You are silent. The scarring is only around his eyes, and it makes your stomach drop.

 

“Have you heard of the Godhra riots in Gujarat? No, you probably haven’t. Pretty much, people were pissed. My mom and my neighbor’s family were trying to get out during it all and we got caught up in it. My neighbor—Terezi…” he sighs and breaks off. “Anyway, my dad got me out of there and we moved here. It turns out America isn’t half bad at educating people with disabilities, though it discriminates against them all the time.”

 

You take his hand again and squeeze it gently. He smiles a little and closes his sightless eyes. “I don’t pity you, you know.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I think you’re pretty badass. And cuter than a Youtube video of newborn kittens waking up for the first time.”

 

“I think you’re a clusterfuck dolt of a librarian with surprisingly decent taste in music.” Karkat turns to face you, eyes still shut. “Can I touch your hair? I just want to feel it.”

 

You feel like dying from sugar overdose. Seriously, how can someone who rages about teenagers for hours on end be so damn cute? You guide his hands to the top of your head with shaking hands.

 

Karkat slowly runs his hands from your forehead to the back of your skull, unintentionally tickling your ears and sending chills through your brain. He pets your hair several more times, a small smile grows on his face, and you just want to grab his hands and kiss him until he’s too dizzy to sit up, and then hold him in your lap and kiss him some more.

 

His hands eventually slide down to rest behind your neck. His eyes open again and gaze blindly at your face. You feel your heart skip way too many beats to be healthy and close the distance between your lips.

 

His mouth moves against yours like his hands had moved across your head moments before. You feel Karkat learning the shape of your mouth, how it moved, how you kissed, how you felt about him, and all the while he tries to communicate his own feelings back towards you. You lay your hands on his hips and guide him closer until he’s leaning flush against your chest. His hands stroke at the nape of your neck, at the soft hairs there.

 

Karkat sighs against your lips and he hugs you tighter. You spend as long as you can massaging his mouth with your own. Finally, you pull yourself away and kiss his forehead. He kisses at your jawbone, and makes his way down to your neck, where he buries his face.

 

You breathe in his smell and don’t bother with trying to place the scent. Instead, you just cement it in your mind as Karkat Vantas, the impossibly amazing guy who you really want to date.

 

“So do you want me to walk you home, or do you want to go on a date or something?”

 

“You don’t know where I live, dumbshit. And you should ask me for my number first.”

 

“Fine. What’s your number?”

 

“Here,” Karkat peels himself off you and takes his phone out of his pocket. “You put it in. And give yourself a ringtone that I can recognize as you.”

 

You play with the phone for a minute or so and then hand it back.

 

“What did you use?” Karkat asks, putting his phone back away.

 

You type in his own number on your contact list and send him a quick call, just to let him know.

 

_My heart’s a stereo. It beats for you so listen close. Hear my thoughts in every note… ___

**Author's Note:**

> Blind Karkat needed to happen.


End file.
